


Three Coins

by Brighid



Category: The Sentinel
Genre: Episode related: S2p2, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-10
Updated: 2013-05-10
Packaged: 2017-12-11 04:09:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,170
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/793816
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Brighid/pseuds/Brighid
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dark waters must be crossed before sailing into morning.<br/>This story is a sequel to There Will Come Soft Rains.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Three Coins

**Author's Note:**

> This was not intended. It just happened. Whether that's good or bad is up to you. Uh ... to those who sent feedback for "More" and didn't get a thank-you, I read 'em, meant to go back, and upon returning found my mail server picking it's teeth and burping. I didn't mean to be rude. Dedicated to Bone, an offering on her shrine. = )

## Three Coins

by Brighid

Author's disclaimer: The boys and all their accessories are property of Petfly, Paramount, UPN and a whole host of others. This is not for profit, but for love. 

* * *

Three Coins 

by Brighid 

I've gotta admit, it looks pretty damned innocuous, right here in the middle of early summer sunlight. A few summer session students are sprawled around it, studying and talking and just, you know, plain living life. There's a part of me that cannot even begin to reconcile this placid fountain with my death. But, man, there's another part of me that's curled up and, like, totally gibbering in panic. 

I take a deep breath and force myself to cross the ten feet of grass and concrete that separate me from it, telling myself to suck it in, suck it up, just fucking ~do~ it already, Sandburg. Oddly enough, the voice in my head is suspiciously like Jim's. Only thing is, he would majorly freak if he knew I was here, doing this. The big guy's been fighting a serious urge to come down here with a sledgehammer. What you can't repress, obliterate. 

You've gotta love the guy. 

And I do. Which is why I'm here. This has got to be done, this has got to be over, or else one small fountain is going to be an ocean between us. Jim's never been too good with deep water, so it's up to me to get us through this. I am, after all, the Guide. Whatever that is, exactly. I was kinda hoping to find a manual or something down there ... or at least a set of directions to the Temple of the Guides. No such luck. Guess I'm back to winging it. Which brings me back to why I'm here. 

I strip off my sandals and sit on the low lip that surrounds the fountain pool. A deep breath and I am letting it go, I am letting it go even as I swing my legs around and slide into the water, shorts and all. I can feel the stares of the students, 'cause while it's an unusually sunny day in Cascade, it's not ~that~ hot. I think I hear a voice, faintly familiar, whisper the word "drowned", but I'm not the Sentinel, so I don't try to follow it. Instead, I close my eyes and focus on my breathing, letting it go. I am letting it go. 

Slowly, steadily, the soft rush of the fountain transforms, becomes the muted roar of a tropical rainstorm on a hotel rooftop. The water moving against my body becomes the silk of bare skin, warm and insistent against me, and I replace the memory of drowning with the memory of surfacing in my Sentinel's arms. 

He was, he was, god, he was everywhere at once, he was like fucking Zeus, man, and I was Danae under him. He even gleamed gold in the shadows, even his eyes, just a little, for just a second when a flash of lightning lit the room to incandescent brightness. He found every place on me, every hollow of me was touched and tasted and scented, like he was memorizing me inch by inch, like he was making sure I was real. 

I've never been so real in my life, I swear. 

I let the memory of the fountain be subsumed in this other remembrance, let the drowning itself be drowned in the heat of Jim Ellison's skin and the taste of his mouth and the memory of my name on his tongue. The memory of cold water and chlorine fades, slips, slides away, nothing but a shadow in the face of one night in a hotel room in Sierra Verde. The fear drifts away, washes away. 

I let it go. 

After a time I return to the here and now, only to find I am not alone in the fountain. Jim is squatting beside me, shoes off and slacks rolled, focusing so intently that I would suspect a zone if it weren't for the dark twists of thoughts and fears I see beneath the glaciers of his eyes. 

Here be dragons, man. 

He is very careful to keep his face neutral, and he almost succeeds, but like I said, I can see the dragons lurking in his eyes. "Did you lose a bet, Sandburg?" he asks at last, his voice an odd mixture of fear, anger and amusement. "Or are you just stupid?" 

I smile at him, so hard my face hurts. I flip him off good-naturedly with one hand, even as the other hits the water hard enough to drench him. He sputters and fumes for a minute, then gives it up and begins to grin back at me. 

God, I would do anything for that smile. I'd always suspected it, and now I know it for sure. I slap the water again, finishing his soaking. 

"Stupid, then," he says with a decisive nod, as though confirming a long-held suspicion of his own. "You are such an asshole, Sandburg." 

"I learned from the best," I reply, laughing at him openly, splashing him yet again. "C'mon in, man. The water's fine," I say, Sentinel-soft. 

He cocks his head, focuses himself on me with incredible intensity, as though pulling the truth from my bones. I can almost see him cataloguing the sensory inventory he's taking. I used to be blown away by the -- magic of it, the sheer awe of it. Now, what knocks me on my ass is the love. 

At last, as though satisfied by the information he's collected, he relaxes a bit, sits back on the edge of the fountain. "Is it fine, Chief?" he asks, real quiet-like and serious. 

I nod. "Yeah, it's fine. This," I gesture to the fountain, "is over, man. While this," I slip my hand under the water to caress the bare skin of his calf, "is just beginning." I'm barely even touching him, but it's there between us, a bright connection, an arc of brilliance where two ... 

... become one. 

He reaches out, tugs at my hair, lets his fingers brush fleetingly against the back of my neck. "Christ, Chief. You haven't got enough sense to be out on your own." He stands up, stretches a hand out to haul me to my feet. "I let you out of my sight for three lousy hours and you're playing in public fountains. C'mon. I'm taking you home." 

I reach up, take his hand, but instead of levering myself up, I pull him down. In full view of, like, everyone, I plant a quick kiss on his spluttering face. "Already there, man," I whisper, and I can feel the tension go out of him, see the glaciers melt. He relaxes briefly against me before he finds his feet again. 

"I'll remember that," he growls, but it's a promise, not a threat. I get up and out, and follow him into the late afternoon sun. 

Some days, it feels good just to be alive. 

)0( 

An End 


End file.
